playing the numbers.

sometimes i have to pull out the really rational (and, i fear, underutilized) part of myself--the part that knows life is just a number's game.

the harder i work, the more i fail, the more i experience, the more growing-pains push me this way and that, the more i come up against what i fear and the more i don't get what i want, the longer it takes to meet this person or that person or get this or do that, well...

the chances of the good happening--of that one thing or one person or one job or one moment that could turn the course, dictate the path, illuminate--the chances get better each day.

it's a number's game. my chance of success increases each day it doesn't happen.

sometimes it's hard to remember that when my head is stuck in the mud of a very busy block of weeks and the universe seems to have just thrown a few things at me that while livable, feel like what-are-the-chances, cruel twists of fate.

a few months ago i was lying in bed, terrified by the idea that i might actually get what i want, and there was this thought: too soon. too soon, it hasn't been hard enough yet.

(hasn't been hard enough, yet?! bite your tongue, ms. fee, not a helpful thought).

dearest universe: i'd like to take that back--that thought, if you might be so kind as to allow me. okay, well, not take it back, but amend it, or just altogether change it. not too soon, it's definitely been hard enough. perhaps that particular story isn't finished yet, and that's okay. but some of the other stuff, not too soon. not too soon. 

i think i'm ready. i'm ready.

so i'll do my best to keep showing up, and if you wouldn't mind just fudging the numbers a bit in my favor? well, that would be swell.

okay. deep breath. onto and into the day...




image: brian w. ferry

the hour after waking

most days i couldn't tell you two things about happiness other than sometimes i am, sometimes i'm not.

sometimes it's there. sometimes it's not.

but this morning, this morning happiness was the quick walk to the corner caffe. the white lunch bag with the bagel-and-egg sandwich. the plastic sip-cup of orange juice. this morning happiness was the quiet apartment and a song on repeat. it was the forgiveness i granted myself for the unmade bed and messy floor. the notion that everything--every action, every thought, every sideways glance is a prayer. distilled down, all is prayer, and i am changed by that. that thought, that knowledge, that eternal and ever-reaching love changes me. this morning happiness was the not-so-gentle sense that everything will work out. the turmoil of excitement sitting pit of stomach for a reason that i am not yet conscious of.

this morning happiness was the hour after waking. when the world was mine and mine alone. and there was no fear. only love. in every action. love of waking, despite exhaustion. love of taking the elevator, and studying the windows across the street. love of feeding my body. of taking this suspended time before the day catapults forward and staking a claim.

on little lies, white lies, the big stuff, and all that comes between.

i still remember the first lie i told.

or, well, the first lie i was conscious of telling.

it was mid-afternoon, after school, and i sat perched atop one of the high bar stools framing the kitchen counter. it spun from side to side and i sat, legs folded under, slowly moving and swaying, a yellow box of nilla wafters in front of me.

my mother had made it clear that i was only to have some (alarmingly) low number of them. no more than three, or some such.

nonsense!

(i had a really good mom. among the best).

i ate three. then three more. then probably three more after that. and on and on and on and on and on.

and i remember her coming back into the kitchen,

did you have just the three?

yup. just three.

and there it was. the first lie told.

i don't remember is if she knew. probably. but what i do remember is the stomach-churning it elicited--and how that had nothing to do with too much sugar.

i am a tremendously lousy liar. i don't do it. perhaps that's the dictate of some strict, and often too-rigid moral compass, but i just don't have a knack for it.

no talent, no skill.

every once and a while i'll give it a go, but when i do i make a face that very clearly says i am lying and you know i am, don't you?


just the other day my mother asked me if i'd taken some pill i was supposed to.

yup.                                silence.

you're lying, aren't you?

yup.

even over the phone it's clear.

i cannot tell a lie and my face hides nothing. more than the question of morality, i think i just want to live authentically.

life is so hard, you know? filled with too many struggles and failures not to embrace them. i just don't want to diminish who i am by lying about it. even if it's a small lie.

and yet. i am deeply fearful. so i omit things. often, i omit.

lying by omission, i suppose that's not much better. and i conceal by structuring the truth in such a way that it's fragmented and unclear. or purposefully misleading.

i consider myself a deeply private person.

bet you didn't think that--didn't know that. hell, here is all this stuff that i've written and revealed and it's as truthful as it can be, and yet, i consider myself a deeply private, often secretive, person.

how can that be? not sure. but that's how i feel.

i parcel out only bits and pieces,  hold the larger truth so close to the chest. i fold truth over on itself so often that the end result is something entirely muddled--language in code.

very rarely does someone stumble upon something i'm unwilling to speak about, but when they do, i smile, side-step, unfurl silence like a ribbon between us, and re-direct. a magician's game.

however, if someone were to ask me something, point blank, i would tell the truth. stripped down, i would answer honestly.

yes. or no. and all the words in between.

and because that's all i know i cannot conceive that other's might do it differently.

that a lie might pass between.



tell me, do you ever tell lies? how do you do it? no judgement here, i'm honestly just tremendously curious. 

week three of this new year: january 15-21

this is the week i put on my suede pumps, colored my lips red and finally took in lincoln center's production of war horse. (it really is as stunning as they say--if you find yourself in new york, you must see it). this is the week i took in a lot of liquids--trading coffee and tea for warm noodle soup. (yes, that's right. this is the week i attempted to cut back on coffee consumption!). this is the week that after five weeks of not feeling well, i slowly started to lose my mind--began rubbing vic's vapo rub on my face (yes, you read that right), applying other salves to heal the tell-tale red just under my nose from where the tissue has marked the skin. this is the week i began dreaming of paris in the spring. may, perhaps? this is the week when new york got cold in a way that made me question if i'd actually survive this winter. truth be told? jury's still out.

a little tune to begin the week.

been a while since i posted anything i'm listening to, so i thought i'd share the song that has kick-started the year for me.

i love it. can't stop listening to it.

"don't you wait, and let time, put those bags under your eyes"




in other news: i was thinking this morning about the first time i told a lie. i actually remember it. i'm gonna write about it later, so should you wanna know...

at the bottom of a coffee cup.

it's been a doozy of a week. and it's gonna be a doozy of the next few.

but last night as i walked through an industrial section of brooklyn, dipping my vegan biscotti into an almond milk latte, i thought: when and how did i become this person? 


turns out, i really quite like this person. 


and that thought is enough to get me through.

one of those things i wish i myself had written:

Before I could flinch, he planted his warm lips against mine, wrapping his arms around my waist. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I thought about putting them in his hair, stopping inches away from his head. I thought about putting them around his neck, but I stopped myself mid-flight. So there I was, being kissed by a boy I was falling hopelessly in love with and making a complete fool of myself, because I looked like I was flagging someone down with my hands. 


Concealed
Sang Kromah




image via. 

the kind of woman i want to be:

i want to take my makeup off every night before bed.
i want to floss my teeth just as often as is recommended.
i want to wear high heels. or not.
i want a little garden. whether it be mounted on a wall, contained in a window-box, or a full backyard plot, i want my own greens. want to mark time by their progress. want to pick them fresh for dinner.
i want to bike to the farmer's market. i want to like green tea. or not. but drink it anyway.
i want my food to be rich in the colors of the earth.
i want to live near the water. or the mountains. or both. i want to pray and give thanks beneath trees that reach upward and out.
i want balance. balance between investing in all the right things and paying attention and putting in the work and then letting it go and not giving two shits.
i want to turn off the lights when i leave a room. and i want to find a partner who can honor that.
i want pictures everywhere. frames everywhere. i want the words hung right up there on the wall. i want to wake early. to move my body because it's good for my heart. because it keeps me light and kind. i want breakfast in bed on saturday mornings. and fresh flowers and gifts for no reason at all. i want to be the kind of friend who honors commitments, takes the time to make the call, sends ridiculous emails just because, who speaks truly and freely, and plans birthday trips to paris.
i want to wear colorful socks and knee-length skirts. bright lipstick and my hair in a high bun.
i want to never go another six-year-period without owning a pair of bluejeans.
i want to return to a bar just because i thought the bartender was cute. and i want to sit late into the night, as darkness folds over itself, falling in love, if only for a morning.

i read this and sobbed--the kind of good, big, open tears that unfurl the chest.

so if you read only one thing today, let it be this--
please, God, let it be this:

{i'm posting it in full here, but please, take note: THESE WORDS ARE NOT MINE. the original can be found here}.

Dear Sugar,

I read your column religiously. I’m 22. From what I can tell by your writing, you’re in your early 40s. My question is short and sweet: what would you tell your 20-something self if you could talk to her now?

Love,
Seeking Wisdom

Dear Seeking Wisdom,

Stop worrying about whether you’re fat. You’re not fat. Or rather, you’re sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this, sweet pea.

In the middle of the night in the middle of your twenties when your best woman friend crawls naked into your bed, straddles you, and says, You should run away from me before I devour you, believe her.

You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough. Leaving doesn’t mean you’re incapable of real love or that you’ll never love anyone else again. It doesn’t mean you’re morally bankrupt or psychologically demented or a nymphomaniac. It means you wish to change the terms of one particular relationship. That’s all. Be brave enough to break your own heart.

When that really sweet but fucked up gay couple invites you over to their cool apartment to do ecstasy with them, say no.

There are some things you can’t understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It’s good you’ve worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness.

One evening you will be rolling around on the wooden floor of your apartment with a man who will tell you he doesn’t have a condom. You will smile in this spunky way that you think is hot and tell him to fuck you anyway. This will be a mistake for which you alone will pay.

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.

You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.

Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.

One hot afternoon during the era in which you’ve gotten yourself ridiculously tangled up with heroin you will be riding the bus and thinking what a worthless piece of crap you are when a little girl will get on the bus holding the strings of two purple balloons. She’ll offer you one of the balloons, but you won’t take it because you believe you no longer have a right to such tiny beautiful things. You’re wrong. You do.

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.

When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.

Say thank you.

Yours,
Sugar

you don't have a career. you have a life.
acceptance is a small, quiet room. 
what you resolve will need to be resolved again. 

the kiss in doorway--that's where i began to really lose it. from there it was all downhill. or up, maybe. this piece will be bookmarked in my tab bar till the end of time.

this new need. a home.

last night i stood with my fingers poised on the doorknob listening for the footsteps to recede into the room furthest from my own.

i hadn't even realized he was home.

the roommate.

just as i'd been about to open my door, i heard the shuffle of his feet and so paused, hand in the air, breath in throat, waiting

we've entered into a dance, both of us, without ever speaking of it or agreeing to it, with no words at all, we've found a way of living in which we shuffle step, one around the other. never occupying the same space, interpreting the music of closing doors, running water, the sweet hum of the kettle.

i'm not proud of this, this way of living. this absence of hello's or how are you's. this passing as strangers on the street. and we are, we're strangers, tied together only by the loose bond of mutual acquaintances and similar schooling. he had seemed the best choice to fill the third and largest room.

and he was. he is. he's fine.

it's not really about him, you know?

this three-room apartment, this once castle-in-the-sky, this once playground-of-open-space, endless flooring, and hudson views, it's--well, it's not enough now.

priorities have changed. values have shifted.

i want my own space. i'll take a closet, if i have to, but i want it to be mine and mine alone. i want to build a home. i want to recognize all the smells, know the hair on the bathroom floor. i want to be sure of who to blame for the over-stuffed and over-ripe garbage (yes, me). i want to be sure the nicks and scratches littering my favorite bowls were the product of my careless fingers--and until the possibility that they were caused by the man i love, by our growing children, well, until that possibility is more than just  hope or passing thought, let me live alone.

i want to know that the next time i share a space with someone the impetus will be love.

this new need is so immediate, so strong. startling, really, in just how physical it is.

i was talking about it at work when another girl said, oh, you're moving, do you need a roommate? in her defense, she had caught the tail-end of the discussion.


no, i replied, taking a deep breath and smiling slowly. i want to live alone. 


alone, why would you want that? 


i gave her a little laugh, oh you know...


the oh, you know was my kind way of saying if you even have to ask, it's not worth explaining. 

perhaps it's age, perhaps it is shifting wants and needs from this thing called life, perhaps it's just part of my makeup. perhaps it's part of my fierce need for independence, product of my believe that space is charged and sacred.

who knows for sure.

all i know for now is, let me live alone. let there be a new adventure, a new experience. for the first time in all my years of new york city living, let me lay claim to a space, let me build a home.

week two of this new year: january 8-14

i've been waking up with no sense of what day it is or where i am or if i even know my name. this is how i know i am busy. so i am trying--really, i am--to focus in on the little things. the chance meeting of feet against cobblestone. the warmth of a really good latte. a book so well-loved and so oft-read the pages are falling out. beautiful plates. the sighting of a vespa. animal crackers and their ability to transport me some twenty-two years. and the joy that comes from days well-filled with work and laughter, new friends and cute men, and the dreams we share over the breaking of bread.

the need to say.

i got home tonight positively alight with the need to put pen to paper.

to expel the clawing, clamoring words.

it's been so long since i've felt the immediacy of that push--the inner-gnawing folding the stomach in on itself.

but the need to write, the words, they were nothing if not fragmented. cutting shards.

and where to begin?

i am not so patient. and i am not so strong. and i can't wait. i want to. but i can't. because it's fair to no one. i have to let this one go. cast it up to the fates and move on. trust that if it's meant to be, it will. was it just one lie that was told? or many? were there things misremembered and confused or were they just not remembered at all? i worry it's all too far gone. worry i'll never be good enough or pretty enough, that'll we'll never meet as equals. and i know this penchant i have for speaking honestly, for saying everything, can alarm and undo, but it's as much who i am as the dark moles littering my skin. it cannot be rubbed off or snuffed out--i've tried.

really, i'm not so strong--a common mistake. and the turmoil and disease of contradictory thoughts, well, i struggle with that, am wounded by that. perhaps i could choose the bits i want to believe--listen to the gut. but i am human, and woman, at that. and the thoughts, the warring words, they're just not enough. i'm not asking for more. that would be unfair. but know this: i am as terrified and fallible and deeply insecure as anyone else.

and so i offer it up. all of it. i throw my hands up, casting it to the wind, trusting the dust will settle as it must.

pho in chinatown.

i have reached this lovely little phase in my life in which i'm surrounded by the most amazing women. kim, is one of those women. we haven't known each other terribly long, but i can confidently say, i adore her. she's the best. the BEST. (she's been a showgirl in vegas, a lounge-singer on a cruise ship, and a woman of international intrigue {i imagine}). she loves to travel (and she's good at it) so when we take to the streets of new york we do so with idea that we're visiting--and what i mean by this is--we take it in with fresh eyes and force ourselves to traverse the parts of the city we're not terribly familiar with. we seek out independent book-sellers, eclectic fashion boutiques, bars with dim-lighting and cute bartenders.

kim introduced me to pho (pronounced: fuh) which is a vietnamese noodle soup that will knock your socks off. (add the hot sauce and that won't just be metaphor talk). we went in search of some today since i'm now four weeks in to a chest cough that won't quite budge (my socks needed some knockin').

so if you ever find yourself in chinatown (you can take the N/R/Q from 42nd to Canal) go get your pho on.

did i mention it's all of about 4 dollars?


places to go:

Pho NhaTrang
Pho Pasteur

(they are next door to each other and located on Baxter street, between White and Walker streets)

the tin atop my desk

there is a tine atop my desk filled with coffee-stained scraps, unfinished lists, scribbles of things i felt the call to remember.

this tin--well, the contents of this tin, might be my most prized possession.

it is random and chaotic and has absolutely no rhyme or reason, but it is important. to me, it is important.

it is a memory box.

i pulled it out the other day, took to leafing through the bits and pieces, scratched out lines that i felt i had properly tended to, circled words and phrases i wanted expand upn.

and i came across a list from november.

november was hard. the fall was absolutely hard this past year.

it was a list of the things i did one day when the going was particularly rough:

i slept with the humidifier on. ordered the books from amazon i'd been wanting. ordered some skirts from asos. woke early. i showered with my new body scrub. took the time to use lotion after getting out. i made sure my phone was fully charged. i ate a nourishing breakfast of oatmeal and flax seeds and slivered almonds. i scrubbed the mold from the shower curtain.

an innocuous list. not terribly exciting. someone else might come upon and wonder why i had thought to save it.

well, because on that day, when i was feeling so blue, each of those things was prefaced with i love myself enough that...

even at the lowest, even feeling blue and unworthy, and terribly sad, there came the thought:

i love myself enough to wash the shower curtain because i deserve to live in a clean home. 

i love myself enough to eat a hearty breakfast because my body deserves that much. 

i did the things i didn't feel like doing, because the larger, better part of me knew i deserved them.

it was a list of my successes that day. short and simple and not terribly interesting. but hugely triumphant, for me a triumph of the little odds and ends that keep one afloat and lead to that delicious territory in which happiness sings.

if i had to boil my entire life philosophy down to seven words, it would be this:

via

week one of this new year: january 1-7.

in this first week of this new year i wore heels and bright red lipstick. i drank peppermint tea, went back to exercise class, got out of the apartment more, gave thanks for the best girlfriends i've ever had, woke to a package with the most beautiful (and adult) wallet, and wore a new pair of jeans for the first time in six and a half years.

then i flew to cleveland, spent some time with family, and got to see one of the most spectacular women i've ever had the great pleasure of knowing marry the love of her life.

not such a bad way to kick off 2012.

written for SCHOOL PUBLICATION

when first asked to write this piece i was…hesitant. of the little i remember of my time at school, i regret much. my story is is certainly not one of juilliard's great successes. and yet. it is mine. for all its faults and flaws and that's worth sharing, no?

the white blank page before me disagrees. i've been unable to piece together...anything--about any of it. how does one sum up school or the subsequent three years in a nice and tidy pile of words? if the story is fragmented and messy how does one do it justice on the page? 

i lost myself at school. that's the long and the short of it. i came to new york at the tender age of eighteen and while others marveled at skyscrapers and central park i acquainted myself with an unnamable sadness. in fact, sadness became my sole companion. perhaps i was too young. perhaps i should have attended a basic liberal arts college. perhaps, perhaps....truth be told it's remarkable i survived at all. but when graduation day finally came it was not a marker of success but a desperate gasp for air. i had failed. deeply, i had failed. and i had lost that little kernel of faith in my ability to act, and as it turns out, myself. 

so i stopped. acting, that is. four years studying the thing and i couldn't stomach it. i know, i know, just what anyone wants to hear as they prepare to leave school or continue on in their education.

but here's the thing failure, as it turns out, proves fertile ground. and in the absence of acting i began to write.  i simply meant to document. to put pen to paper to help me remember or preserve a period of my life for the future. but those words became a solace that slowly unfurled me--revealed me to myself. the great roadmap of the journey inward. and i found that all that i had learned at school in terms of sounds and shapes of vowels and the discrepancy between what is thought and what is known leant itself beautifully towards writing. 

and writing, as it turns out, gave me back my life. does that sound terribly dramatic? well, it is. and it was.  

there are moments i wish i could go back and do school all over again. as the person i am now. perhaps this time i'd be ready. perhaps this time i'd get it right. perhaps, perhaps. but i have to remind myself that few stories are truly linear. we twist around, circle back on ourselves, and when we're lucky, move forward. and that's okay. my story is not done. i left acting but whether or not i will return  is a part of the story i've yet to write. 

what i mean to say is this. if things don't go as planned, that's okay. (i know, i know, everyone says that.) how to tell you--to make you understand.

how about this: failure is essential. fail as much and as gloriously as you can. fail in little, seemingly inconsequential ways when no one is looking. or fail on a stage under the lights. the thing is, others might not see it as such. and given enough time, it might actually reveal itself as something else. because when the failure fades or passes or wears another mask it gives way to a joy so profound, it lies beyond imagination--even that special brand of imagination that juilliard encourages.

and joy, more than anything else i've ever known,  is essential to art. (yes, joy).

sometimes i wonder how i'll look back on this period in my life--as a pause in the story? as a precursor to the next great plot twist? a time when i was tied to nothing, living anonymously in a small, sunlit apartment, way high north on the island of manhattan next to the train tracks and nestled against the river--and i think i'll be a better actor because of these days, a better person, if nothing else. 

written for STORY OF MY LIFE

i've been wracking my brain all week for a good story to tell.

i could write about that time in canada i found myself seated next to a half-naked man in a theatre (and not a theatre of ill-repute, mind you). he arrived fully clothed, then there was a lot of movement, and suddenly--voila--a bare chest. let's just say, i didn't see much of that first half of arms and the man.

or perhaps i should speak of those lazy spring nights in texas when i'd escape to the soccer fields with the boys and smoke cigars as dew formed on the grass. i was not a rebellious teen. i didn't drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes or kiss anyone under any bleachers. i worked hard in school. but as senior year came to an end i found myself staying out just a little bit later, falling for a boy who would go on to follow phish around the country, and puffing on cigars by the elementary school soccer fields.

but both those stories are slivers, small bits. and i want to tell the story of my life, right? or, at least, try. perhaps, though, that's all it is right now, slivers of a story. scattered pieces waiting to come together. after all, i'm just beginning (or so i hope).

and yet, i keep coming back to this: new york.

new york is my story.

beginning on 66th in a white, stone, fortress-like building and an open-air plaza filled with boys who threw frisbees, made bets, and smoked too much pot. moving on to 72nd and a pub named malachy's where many a baseball game was taken in and the man behind the counter knew all of our names. there was my first apartment at 104th and a cat we called flaubert. i dated a guy at 190th who gave me a key to his house and promised to show me the cloisters (among other things). i ended that relationship at a diner on 70th. there's central park and riverside park and fort tryon park and the countless times i've traversed each one pounding something more than pavement.

the city is a zig-zagging-connect-the-dots of my history--of my sadness and its eventual passing. of the joy that follows, the sweet bliss that sweeps in after utter destruction.

and then there's here: 181st street. in a small corner apartment--my own little castle in the sky--a corner apartment abutting the hudson and nestled against the train tracks. and i can feel this corner apartment-- this corner of manhattan working on me, pushing me past this cesura in the story. this moment between, this hanging breath in which all is possible and all is unknown. i write this now in the cafe down the street and i, more than anyone, wonder what's next--when the plot twist will arise, when new characters will be introduced, when there will be some sort of resolution.

and the thing is, i don't know. i just don't know. but i do know i'm better for all this. better for the unknown. better for the sadness. better for the bliss. better, for new york.

better, yes, but poised for the next.

so should jenny ever have be back here again, years from now, my great hope is i'll have more to tell you. more of the story to share. more space filled in and out.

written for FAIRYTALES ARE TRUE

last night i sat staring into my skim latte, my friend alex sitting across the long and narrow, wood-grained table.

what should i write about? i asked. (i do best when prompts are dangled before me like a bowl of pepperidge farm cheddar goldfish).

what's her blog about? alex asked me.

sarah's? i lit up. oh, well, it's called fairy tales are true, and alex, they just might be. because she's tall and gorgeous and blond and she's married to a baseball player and now they travel the world together from one exotic location to the next and she's going to end the obesity epidemic with her living kitchen and yes, yes i'm gushing (and speaking at an uncomfortably high volume), but i might just be a little bit in love with her (and maybe, just maybe my fairytale  {yet to come true} looks awfully similar to this).


alex responded, perhaps you could write about what the fairytale is like when you don't look quite so much like the fairy-princess. 


scoff. kerfuffel. plunk.

(eventual chuckle).

this was not a slight on my beauty but rather against my dark hair. my, yes, brunette hair. (and also a testament to how well and how long i described just how gorgeous sarah really is). alex quickly amended the statement when i pointed out disney princess after disney princess who was not blond: belle (literary goddess and my life's great role model), snow white, pocahantas, mulan (and of course, anastasia {thought technically she was dreamworks, i think}). alex then went on to point out that i look most like pocahantas (paler skin, of course) and maybe a little like mulan. keep in mind i'm a white, irish-catholic girl from texas. thing is, he's kinda right.

as for the fairytale portion, mine is yet unknown. well, that's not entirely true. for now the fairytale is one of me living by myself in new york city and taking the world by storm (and by storm, i mean figuring it out inch by pain-staking inch).

i love new york, i do (much of the time). but i can't stop dreaming of red vespas, breezy sundresses, and sandals against cobblestone. the careless curvature of intersecting piazza and street. small, sunlit kitchens with copper kettles and adjacent balconies. unprocessed foods and bright shutters against aging stone structures.

europe has my heart.

oh, to be european! to dress like one and eat like one and travel like one. to love like one! and just as soon as i figure out how i promise you this: i'll spend my days traversing italy and france, scotland and germany, austria and switzerland, with the man i've always dreamt of and nothing but a pen, a piece of paper, and the very best camera my grubby little fingers can get a hold of.

(of course if the end days happens before this--and in new york, it's set to happen this saturday--i might be in trouble).

for now i toil away here in the states, living a charmed but often lonesome, little life. you see, i'm still waiting for the prince to arrive on his impressive white horse and whisk me away.

waiting is not quite right though. i am a modern girl in a modern world braiding my rapunzel rope one goldspun (brunet) strand at a time.

(and this is where baseball comes in). lately it feels as though i'm on the brink of something. on the brink of a new life--man, pen, camera and all. this feeling is persistent and nagging and all-together wonderful. and so the thing i keep coming back to, my touchstone words are these: if you build it, they will come.

and so i'm building. and dreaming. and sending up prayer after prayer that my fairytale comes to fruition. and i have this sneaking, wonderful, little suspicion that it just might. despite, or maybe just because of, my long, dark locks.

concealer

I do believe in the genius that is under-eye concealer. But I want to take some time to address how it should be worn--or at least, how it should be applied. Because application is key.

So I'm risking life and limb here by revealing some unbelievably unattractive photos (1 and 2, specifically) so that you can see step by step just how it's done (well, how I do it, I should say).

Note the dark circles. I blame my Polish roots (mostly because i once read an article in which Diane Kruger talked about inheriting very dark under-eye circles from her Polish grandmother). Every time I go home and I walk downstairs that first morning, I give my mother a fright. Am I sick? Have I not been sleeping? she wonders. Nope. Just genetics. And maybe bad allergies--that's my hypothesis.

Euf. Okay, now that you've seen the before, let's get to work. The most important thing is to focus on more than just the problem area. Please, I entreat you, do not simply focus on the circles themselves--don't only apply the concealer there! I start in the lower corner of my eye and work outward and downward (along my nose). For shape think of an elongated arrowhead. And hint: I don't always get the whole of the dark circle--the bit furthest away from my nose I often leave for basic foundation.

Now pat. Below you can see one eye patted in.

Use your ring finger--it is always the finger with the lightest touch. And for the love of all that is good, don't rub. Okay, maybe when the patting is finished rub just a bit--but with great discretion.

The above process is then finished off with foundation all over the rest of the face--and the foundation need not go over the concealer. It can meet the edge of it, but don't pile foundation on top of concealer.

Below begins what I refer to the owl eye brightening process. It is a second way to apply concealer--learned during my short stint as a makeup artist for a cosmetic company. I only use it when I'm in the mood, but I must admit it works quite well. You apply the concealer in small dashes all around the eyes and up over the eyebrows (think owl). Then pat in (again with ring finger). The effect is the brightening of the area all around the eyes. We want to do all we can to avoid applying under-eye concealer to just the under-eye dark circles--if you take anything away from this, take that little nugget of info.

The final step in brightening the eyes--because that's what this is all about, no?--is finding a great eye base for eyeshadow that can be worn alone. A neutral shade that just pops the eyelid is key.

Oftentimes I don't want to leave the house in a full face of makeup so I begin (always, always) with  a moisturizer that has an SPF. From there I put on my under-eye concealer and a bit of mascara and that's all I need.

In this final picture I do have on mascara, concealer, light foundation, a bit of bronzer, and just a swipe of eye-shadow. The result from picture to picture is extremely subtle, but all together it adds up to something that nicely enhances my own brand of natural beauty (Don't believe me? Return now to picture 1 and 2. We're on the same page now? Phew).

Happy concealing (or, well, enhancing, really)!

on beauty

when Reachel first emailed me about this lovely series she posed a question that i loosely translated to what makes you feel beautiful? and then quickly mis-remembered as what make you feel sexiest?

(there's some kind of insight into my core right there).

the question could not have come at a better time. (precisely because i was feeling anything but).

beauty is a funny thing, isn't it? a fickle mistress. what i've come to understand is that feeling you're beautiful and knowing you're beautiful are entirely different things. and i'd take the feeling any day of the week, because the feeling--that inner spark--well, that informs everything.

so i took Reachel's question and i went for a jog (literally). and as my feet pounded away at the pavement, and the hudson river rolled past on my left, i made a list. and that list made one thing very clear: i feel most beautiful when i am most myself (which as it turns out is also when i feel sexiest--for me there is no difference between the two), when i am fully engaged in this chaotic and turbulent and wholly exciting world we live in.

what does that mean?





















well, it means i feel most beautiful when i'm laughing really hard. out loud. and even more so when i'm telling a good joke or a good story--watching the eyes of the people i love crinkle in response to something i've said? heaven. few things trump that.

i feel most beautiful while eating a green apple, after an impossible exercise class, with my hair pulled into a high, messy bun, as i traipse about lower manhattan giving thanks for a body that moves and runs and spins--holy heck is the body a miraculous thing!

or when listening to good music. or waiting for the subway with a good book in hand. reading and understanding and reveling in a poem that three years ago made no sense to me (walt whitman's "song of the open road"). watching the rain move in over chicago as portugal. the man plays "so american". standing arms and mouth open to welcome said rain. imbibing a hot drink on a cold day. a walk through central park on a cool morning. furtively glancing at the guy at the end of the bar and then catching him mid-stare. or a nod from the bass player from that one alaskan band i so love.

doing something, anything, that a year ago i couldn't (or rather, was too afraid) to do. heading into the belly of the beast of fear and coming out the other end makes me feel beautiful in a way that nothing (and i do mean nothing) can touch.

what i look like will change with time. my weight will fluctuate. the lines on my forehead will crease. the gray hairs will take hold and multiply. but my mind, my intelligence, the light behind my eyes--that (God willing) will remain. more than that (again, God willing) it will grow and burgeon. it is my belief that my intelligence and my desire to live life fully--to live imperfectly but honestly, makes me wholly myself.  and the more i can align myself with my value system, the more i balance on the axis of who i am--the more i know what i want and what i believe in, the more beautiful i feel.

and there, on that axis, perched atop it all--balancing on the bounties of this life (both good and bad) well, then, from there, the opinions of others regarding what i look like will matter only with my consent. it will be how i feel from within my body--inside the sweet-spot of life that will dictate my response. i won't need a mirror or a scale or any of the trappings to provide me with what i've somehow always known but often doubted: that i am, in fact, yes, beautiful.

the big kitchen table.

you know what i want?

one of those ridiculously, unbelievably, alarmingly large kitchen tables--the kind that are long and thick and made from recycled, imperfect wood.

i want that kind of table that if need be (and why wouldn't need be?)  could host a party of twenty.  let it be big as a ship, middle of the kitchen, steering our home life through the tempestuous waters of this deliriously juicy life.

let it be covered in papers. let those papers be stained by coffee and tea. let them be slips of words i've yet to collect, half-formed ideas--fragments of scribble on white that you found i've left behind in the bathroom, the bedroom, by the table under the stairs.

let it be messy. our mess. let our mess sing. let it thrum the beat of the daily grind and subsequent salve.

let the table house stacks of things that must be read and marked up--things we'll know the words to by day's end. let those things be the marrow of our work. let those things be reminders of all that we love and that which we still foolishly believe might change the world--or our little corner of it, at least.

let the table see dinner party after dinner party. quiet ones, raucous ones, ones for just us two. let it be where we feed the ones we love. where we build the life we love. let it anchor us to a place and to each other and to hard work and late nights and lots of wine and the following morning with its warm, pooling lattes.




i don't want a life that's perfect. where every day is good. where happiness never falters and gives way to longing or loneliness or pain. that doesn't interest me. why try and hide what makes us human? show me that. give me that. offer up your humanity, your fault-line of divinity, and i will spend each day forging forward into that land where language has no meaning. to that place beyond words where we find and love  each other wholly and simply.




image.

this morning.

in going through last year's posts to come up with some sort of year-end review there was a thing that became alarmingly clear.

i hadn't written much--i couldn't find the words to accurately chart what a compelling year it was for me. where were those posts i was sure i had written?

i've become a lazy writer. i'll cop to that. not that i've ever been terribly disciplined. but as of late...well, it's been harder to get the words out. and the fear of that reality has kept me from even trying.

so i woke this morning, determined.

i sat down, pounded some very poor words onto paper.

gave up halfway through and pulled out a book instead.

reading is imperative for writers. {that was my excuse this morning}.

my manhattan: the wreaths are still up, but the resolutions are resolving and revolving.

it's that sacred time in new york when the decorations are scattered, the trees are finding their way once more to the sidewalk, but everything feels possible with the start of a fresh year and the blistering wind sweeping in off the river.

i'm feeling the newness of this year more than usual. so i put on heels today, have taken to drinking tea when i can--you see i am trying to live as the person i've always wanted to be.

but the thing is: i'm still half-way to a bag-lady. and i still lose things. all the time i'm having just lost my keys or my sunglasses or my metro card, and there i am stooping on the sidewalk so as to empty the contents of my many bags in search of the thing which i haven't really lost, but hell if i can find it.

some things never change. new year or not.

i think i'll look back on 2011 as the year i was made bold by a love of music and the weight of a camera against my chest:

these are the songs that will tell the story of this year. these are the songs i carry in me. these are the songs that will remind me of my first-ever-concert in boston, the long cab-ride to brooklyn, how music marks time and makes circles, of all the things i learned in chicago this summer.

i will remember what song i was listening to when i took the subway downtown to face my greatest fear, my greatest love, to mark the passage of could-have-been lives.

it will be the beginning of the soundtrack for when i finally get around to making my own cameron crowe coming of age film.

this past year was magic. heartbreaking and difficult and monumental and heaven-sent in so many ways. i may not yet have the words to adequately sum it all up, and my photos may not do it justice, so until i take the time to hash it all out, i offer up these melodies...